Archive for the ‘Meta DJs’ Category

ha, floppy own-brand tortilla chips, peanuts and Lilt and vodka (just a very small medical dash for my damaged tropical child) for breakfast. Happy New Year. Can’t sleep so let my betters rest. A guitar string just pinged on the wall so I must be Accompanied.

I don’t know if you use Discogs but I do and I like it. I’m not one of those psychedelic revolutionaries that acts like a soul-smarm priest who’s pretending he hasn’t got anything in his underpants. I have baby, it’s here. I believe in the meta-fundamentals of the market. I believe in the Big Deal, it is holy to me. If a has it, and b wants it, then so be it and let’s haggle the fucker across. We are good creatures, don’t get me wrong, and people forget it and then get all pious when someone helps a brother out as if it isn’t written into us like hunger, violence and sorrow, but in that sense humans are alright and can’t help but help. Ants help ants, wolves howl for the chase, Biiiig Issue etc. Yeah, but fuck the Old Ways and Record Collector and that. My The Best Of Abba used to say £40 in the Book, but, uh, the internets is grease for human souls and the funny thing about capitalism, cos all human history is irony, is that which is finessed is also almost complete & thus over, man. What I mean is the web is The Final Auction, and that goes for eBay as much as Tahrir square or whatever. OK.

So, if you’re still with me, or ever were, then here is a racing tip for the lowest common denominator written on a peice of internet paper. Our pal Si, you shall know him by his name up there, has got at least one copy of Tripel 004 going at £2. Now I don’t cast aspersions on Simon, because of what I’ve said above, and because he is someone who both likes to live simply and also used to run an online shop, and since the two are incompatible the former will inevitably win out over the latter, thank goodness fror his sake. Tripel 004?, I hear you ask in your unripe foolishness, like dogs questioning the unlikely appearance of the Ace in the great fucking help of the sleight of hand! Well, way back when when there was no history of that to make a mad old man tell it like this now, yer Dave, my fucking Dave, in his Gold-souled wish for something more meaningful than what’s measured in money, stumped up for the Split. A thousand fucking pounds. Mastered by the fucking Faroe Goodiepal on a reel-to-reel (he says) according to his special specifications. Dubplates & Mastering. A picture disc. Designed by Animals On Wheels. Me half-cut in an amusment arcade in Padstow throwing it down like a Maori warrior or some PNG shit. It’s all fucking grist. Two Thousand & Five, Dave on the concrete tip, the audio derive through the raw tripped-out beauty of sound, where even TV cookshows can get souffled into something just-so that the absence of words leaves your dumb face in a squinch whilst your mind races for HELP. You know James Ferraro? Well, it’s not like that music-wise but it isn’t just the chefs. I feel this strongly. There’s a blankness, an overloadedness of symbols, that was in the recipe. Play the records side by side. Mix them together perhaps. And yeah, it’s half a giraffe of probably the best thing I ever did or will. I’m on Discogs, and you can buy the CD-R off me for not-a-penny-less than 5 quid, and it might be the complete thing, but that record is All Gold, solid fucking gold, and the only reason you don’t know it is because nobody told you, but I’m telling you now.

So, what I’m asking you to do, is please buy the record off Simon. I think the market value is more like £4.50, at least, so you’d be getting a good deal. We still live under a capitalist system, but this is a time of renewal, traditionally. Why not make it your first symbolic purchase of 2012? Please.

Had a bit of a reggae windfall this week. I’m getting used to the heartache of seeing a box of records lying about in Resale, falling upon them like Indiana Jones, but then being told they are still to be looked at and then never seeing them again. The other week there was a box of jazz treasures with a microwave sitting on top of a warping copy of A Love Supreme and all I could do was try to minimise the damage. Anyway, really fucking weirdly, or perhaps because of the recession/collapse of so-called Western Democracy, Resale Al saw me sideling about the aisles the other day and almost conspiratorially informed me that there was a box of records in the kitchen that I might want to have a look at. I’d actually seen them about 3 weeks previously but had given up all hope they’d appear in the shop. Anyway, nice seam of the black gold stuff:

I have a nasty birthday next week, so I’m in party activist mode this week trying to make sure the damn thing has food and music and guests and stuff. As I’m super stinko-poor I haven’t bought hardly any records in about a year and a half apart from a couple of charity-shop things that were cheap enough for me not to be able to resist. In fact I’ve been trying to sell stuff like mad on Discogs to get the damn things out of my room and make a little dough to survive. Last week I had a good week because Guru died and some Finnish geezer bought a Gang Starr 7″ (Love Sick) I had and a Jackson Sisters LP and the Hi-Tension Record. Also sold some Psychic TV-related thing I only had the second disc of. Anyways money came in and records and mailers went out and then it all fucked up yesterday because I stumbled on a nice little stash of vinyl that seems tailored to the kind of thrash I’m hoping to midwif a week today. So, spent about everything I’ve got to live on but it had to be done.

Not a party track. Or is it?

Also got a Bohannon tune called I’ve Got The Dance Fever which I can’t find on YouTube. Oh yeah and ditto The Enemy Within the Sherwood/LeBlanc Support The Miners record. All 12″!

In other cool news Dave & I watched the Sensational film last night and it’s great & I am totally in it, which makes me really proud and embarassed at the same time. Dave is the original fan round here though, and he’s really kept the faith over the years. I should do a proper blog about that actually. Remind me to do that. And go and buy the Nochexxx/Sensational record on Werk. It’s fucking great.

Today I bought:

“Cocaine” Dillinger
“In Praise Of Learning” Henry Cow (that’s the pick of the bunch right there)
“Marquee Moon” Television (I do have two copies already but it was in good nick and it’s on Discogs right now.
“Love Bites” Buzzcocks
“Shape Of Things To Come” The Kinks (10″!)
“Don’t Break My Heart” UB40 7″ (I think this tune has a charming weirdness, so fuck you).
“Loving You” Minnie Ripperton. (Figure I might get to play this at the end of some messy night one day).

When I went up to the counter the bloke said “hello dynamite” and I gave him a weird smile because I thought he was talking to me and not whoever had just walked through the door behind me.

Was mixing my drinks last night, with way more herbal teas than standard. Green tea, peppermint, cammomile. crashed out about 2AM after viewing the enjoyable Royal Tennenbaums with my hand on the volume knob all the way through. I could watch Gene Hackman all day. Awoke sweating after vivid dream just after 4. Dream was in the style of sophisticated and modish American TV program about a military unit engaged in jungle warfare, like a more humid version of Generation Kill. Woke up silently screaming – being pursued by guys in headscarves swarming down a hill. Outside it was a muggy, misty East Anglia.Felix’s thing was fun, although I have some regrets. They are:

Should have taken more pictures because it was hard to take a bad one, especially at the party.
Wish Felix DJed the 7″ singles he asked us all to bring (one each was stipulated, although I brought about 6 and Dave brought 3), or maybe even asked me and Dave to DJ, although he probably doesn’t know quite how talented we are in that regard. He certainly didn’t know I had brought my MP3 player with minijack to RCA phono adaptors just in case.
I regret being totally fucking partied out by about 1.30AM, thereby not getting to actually talk that much to people.
I regret telling Mariola’s daughter that she sounded like her Mum. What I meant was that I’d been trying to discern evidence of her maternal origins all evening and suddenly I caught a glimpse in her manner, in a sudden intensity of expression. Even Bobby, who isn’t synonymous with propriety, was more or less aghast at this gauche error.

Treated Belgium and London as one long holiday and I’m a little tired and bored of myself now. I’m sure burning the candle on and off uses more wax or something. Anyway, you lot babysit the apocalypse for a bit. I’m getting an early night.